What! shall that sudden bladeLeap out no more?No more thy hand be laidUpon the sword-hilt smiting sore?O for another suchThe charger's rein to clutch,—One equal voice to summon victory,Sounding thy battle-cry,Brave darling of the soldiers' choice!Would there were one more voice!O gallant charge, too bold!O fierce, imperious greedTo pierce the clouds that in their darkness holdSlaughter of man and steed!Now, stark and cold,Among thy fallen braves thou liest,And even with thy blood defiestThe wolfish foe:But ah, thou liest low,And all our birthday song is hushed indeed!Young lion of the plain,Thou of the tawny mane!Hotly the soldiers' hearts shall beat,Their mouths thy death repeat,Their vengeance seek the trail againWhere thy red doomsmen be;But on the charge no more shall streamThy hair,—no more thy sabre gleam,—No more ring out thy battle-shout,Thy cry of victory!Not when a hero fallsThe sound a world appalls:For while we plant his crossThere is a glory, even in the loss:But when some craven heartFrom honor dares to part,Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek,And men in whispers speak,Nor kith nor country dare reclaimFrom the black depths his name.Thou, wild young warrior, rest,By all the prairie winds caressed!Swift was thy dying pang;Even as the war-cry rangThy deathless spirit mounted highAnd sought Columbia's sky:—There, to the northward far,Shines a new star,And from it blazes downThe light of thy renown!Edmund Clarence Stedman.July 10, 1876.
What! shall that sudden bladeLeap out no more?No more thy hand be laidUpon the sword-hilt smiting sore?O for another suchThe charger's rein to clutch,—One equal voice to summon victory,Sounding thy battle-cry,Brave darling of the soldiers' choice!Would there were one more voice!O gallant charge, too bold!O fierce, imperious greedTo pierce the clouds that in their darkness holdSlaughter of man and steed!Now, stark and cold,Among thy fallen braves thou liest,And even with thy blood defiestThe wolfish foe:But ah, thou liest low,And all our birthday song is hushed indeed!Young lion of the plain,Thou of the tawny mane!Hotly the soldiers' hearts shall beat,Their mouths thy death repeat,Their vengeance seek the trail againWhere thy red doomsmen be;But on the charge no more shall streamThy hair,—no more thy sabre gleam,—No more ring out thy battle-shout,Thy cry of victory!Not when a hero fallsThe sound a world appalls:For while we plant his crossThere is a glory, even in the loss:But when some craven heartFrom honor dares to part,Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek,And men in whispers speak,Nor kith nor country dare reclaimFrom the black depths his name.Thou, wild young warrior, rest,By all the prairie winds caressed!Swift was thy dying pang;Even as the war-cry rangThy deathless spirit mounted highAnd sought Columbia's sky:—There, to the northward far,Shines a new star,And from it blazes downThe light of thy renown!Edmund Clarence Stedman.July 10, 1876.
What! shall that sudden bladeLeap out no more?No more thy hand be laidUpon the sword-hilt smiting sore?O for another suchThe charger's rein to clutch,—One equal voice to summon victory,Sounding thy battle-cry,Brave darling of the soldiers' choice!Would there were one more voice!
O gallant charge, too bold!O fierce, imperious greedTo pierce the clouds that in their darkness holdSlaughter of man and steed!Now, stark and cold,Among thy fallen braves thou liest,And even with thy blood defiestThe wolfish foe:But ah, thou liest low,And all our birthday song is hushed indeed!
Young lion of the plain,Thou of the tawny mane!Hotly the soldiers' hearts shall beat,Their mouths thy death repeat,Their vengeance seek the trail againWhere thy red doomsmen be;But on the charge no more shall streamThy hair,—no more thy sabre gleam,—No more ring out thy battle-shout,Thy cry of victory!
Not when a hero fallsThe sound a world appalls:For while we plant his crossThere is a glory, even in the loss:But when some craven heartFrom honor dares to part,Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek,And men in whispers speak,Nor kith nor country dare reclaimFrom the black depths his name.
Thou, wild young warrior, rest,By all the prairie winds caressed!Swift was thy dying pang;Even as the war-cry rangThy deathless spirit mounted highAnd sought Columbia's sky:—There, to the northward far,Shines a new star,And from it blazes downThe light of thy renown!
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
July 10, 1876.
The Indians were led by Rain-in-the-Face. The year before, he had been arrested by Captain Tom Custer at Standing Rock, and had threatened to eat the latter's heart. The Captain was among the killed, and Rain-in-the-Face is said to have made good his threat. Mr. Longfellow is mistaken in saying that Colonel George Custer was thus mutilated. His body was not disfigured in any way.
The Indians were led by Rain-in-the-Face. The year before, he had been arrested by Captain Tom Custer at Standing Rock, and had threatened to eat the latter's heart. The Captain was among the killed, and Rain-in-the-Face is said to have made good his threat. Mr. Longfellow is mistaken in saying that Colonel George Custer was thus mutilated. His body was not disfigured in any way.
THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE
[June 25, 1876]
In that desolate land and lone,Where the Big Horn and YellowstoneRoar down their mountain path,By their fires the Sioux ChiefsMuttered their woes and griefsAnd the menace of their wrath."Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,"Revenge upon all the raceOf the White Chief with yellow hair!"And the mountains dark and highFrom their crags reëchoed the cryOf his anger and despair.In the meadow, spreading wideBy woodland and river-sideThe Indian village stood;All was silent as a dream,Save the rushing of the streamAnd the blue-jay in the wood.In his war paint and his beads,Like a bison among the reeds,In ambush the Sitting BullLay with three thousand bravesCrouched in the clefts and caves,Savage, unmerciful!Into the fatal snareThe White Chief with yellow hairAnd his three hundred menDashed headlong, sword in hand;But of that gallant bandNot one returned again.The sudden darkness of deathOverwhelmed them like the breathAnd smoke of a furnace fire:By the river's bank, and betweenThe rocks of the ravine,They lay in their bloody attire.But the foemen fled in the night,And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,Uplifted high in airAs a ghastly trophy, boreThe brave heart, that beat no more,Of the White Chief with yellow hair.Whose was the right and the wrong?Sing it, O funeral song,With a voice that is full of tears,And say that our broken faithWrought all this ruin and scathe,In the Year of a Hundred Years.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
In that desolate land and lone,Where the Big Horn and YellowstoneRoar down their mountain path,By their fires the Sioux ChiefsMuttered their woes and griefsAnd the menace of their wrath."Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,"Revenge upon all the raceOf the White Chief with yellow hair!"And the mountains dark and highFrom their crags reëchoed the cryOf his anger and despair.In the meadow, spreading wideBy woodland and river-sideThe Indian village stood;All was silent as a dream,Save the rushing of the streamAnd the blue-jay in the wood.In his war paint and his beads,Like a bison among the reeds,In ambush the Sitting BullLay with three thousand bravesCrouched in the clefts and caves,Savage, unmerciful!Into the fatal snareThe White Chief with yellow hairAnd his three hundred menDashed headlong, sword in hand;But of that gallant bandNot one returned again.The sudden darkness of deathOverwhelmed them like the breathAnd smoke of a furnace fire:By the river's bank, and betweenThe rocks of the ravine,They lay in their bloody attire.But the foemen fled in the night,And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,Uplifted high in airAs a ghastly trophy, boreThe brave heart, that beat no more,Of the White Chief with yellow hair.Whose was the right and the wrong?Sing it, O funeral song,With a voice that is full of tears,And say that our broken faithWrought all this ruin and scathe,In the Year of a Hundred Years.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
In that desolate land and lone,Where the Big Horn and YellowstoneRoar down their mountain path,By their fires the Sioux ChiefsMuttered their woes and griefsAnd the menace of their wrath.
"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,"Revenge upon all the raceOf the White Chief with yellow hair!"And the mountains dark and highFrom their crags reëchoed the cryOf his anger and despair.
In the meadow, spreading wideBy woodland and river-sideThe Indian village stood;All was silent as a dream,Save the rushing of the streamAnd the blue-jay in the wood.
In his war paint and his beads,Like a bison among the reeds,In ambush the Sitting BullLay with three thousand bravesCrouched in the clefts and caves,Savage, unmerciful!
Into the fatal snareThe White Chief with yellow hairAnd his three hundred menDashed headlong, sword in hand;But of that gallant bandNot one returned again.
The sudden darkness of deathOverwhelmed them like the breathAnd smoke of a furnace fire:By the river's bank, and betweenThe rocks of the ravine,They lay in their bloody attire.
But the foemen fled in the night,And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,Uplifted high in airAs a ghastly trophy, boreThe brave heart, that beat no more,Of the White Chief with yellow hair.
Whose was the right and the wrong?Sing it, O funeral song,With a voice that is full of tears,And say that our broken faithWrought all this ruin and scathe,In the Year of a Hundred Years.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
One survivor there was, and only one, Comanche, the horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh. He was found several miles from the battlefield, and had been wounded seven times. By order of the Secretary of War, a soldier was detailed to take care of him as long as he lived, and no one was ever afterwards permitted to ride him.
One survivor there was, and only one, Comanche, the horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh. He was found several miles from the battlefield, and had been wounded seven times. By order of the Secretary of War, a soldier was detailed to take care of him as long as he lived, and no one was ever afterwards permitted to ride him.
MILES KEOGH'S HORSE
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn,At the close of a woful day,Custer and his Three HundredIn death and silence lay.Three Hundred to Three Thousand!They had bravely fought and bled;For such is the will of CongressWhen the White man meets the Red.The White men are ten millions,The thriftiest under the sun;The Reds are fifty thousand,And warriors every one.So Custer and all his fighting menLay under the evening skies,Staring up at the tranquil heavenWith wide, accusing eyes.And of all that stood at noondayIn that fiery scorpion ring,Miles Keogh's horse at eveningWas the only living thing.Alone from that field of slaughter,Where lay the three hundred slain,The horse Comanche wandered,With Keogh's blood on his mane.And Sturgis issued this order,Which future times shall read,While the love and honor of comradesAre the soul of the soldier's creed.He said—Let the horse ComancheHenceforth till he shall die,Be kindly cherished and cared forBy the Seventh Cavalry.He shall do no labor; he never shall knowThe touch of spur or rein;Nor shall his back be ever crossedBy living rider again.And at regimental formationOf the Seventh Cavalry,Comanche draped in mourning and ledBy a trooper of Company I,Shall parade with the Regiment!Thus it wasCommanded and thus done,By order of General Sturgis, signedBy Adjutant Garlington.Even as the sword of Custer,In his disastrous fall,Flashed out a blaze that charmed the worldAnd glorified his pall.This order, issued amid the gloom,That shrouds our army's name,When all foul beasts are free to rendAnd tear its honest fame.Shall prove to a callous peopleThat the sense of a soldier's worth,That the love of comrades, the honor of arms,Have not yet perished from earth.John Hay.
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn,At the close of a woful day,Custer and his Three HundredIn death and silence lay.Three Hundred to Three Thousand!They had bravely fought and bled;For such is the will of CongressWhen the White man meets the Red.The White men are ten millions,The thriftiest under the sun;The Reds are fifty thousand,And warriors every one.So Custer and all his fighting menLay under the evening skies,Staring up at the tranquil heavenWith wide, accusing eyes.And of all that stood at noondayIn that fiery scorpion ring,Miles Keogh's horse at eveningWas the only living thing.Alone from that field of slaughter,Where lay the three hundred slain,The horse Comanche wandered,With Keogh's blood on his mane.And Sturgis issued this order,Which future times shall read,While the love and honor of comradesAre the soul of the soldier's creed.He said—Let the horse ComancheHenceforth till he shall die,Be kindly cherished and cared forBy the Seventh Cavalry.He shall do no labor; he never shall knowThe touch of spur or rein;Nor shall his back be ever crossedBy living rider again.And at regimental formationOf the Seventh Cavalry,Comanche draped in mourning and ledBy a trooper of Company I,Shall parade with the Regiment!Thus it wasCommanded and thus done,By order of General Sturgis, signedBy Adjutant Garlington.Even as the sword of Custer,In his disastrous fall,Flashed out a blaze that charmed the worldAnd glorified his pall.This order, issued amid the gloom,That shrouds our army's name,When all foul beasts are free to rendAnd tear its honest fame.Shall prove to a callous peopleThat the sense of a soldier's worth,That the love of comrades, the honor of arms,Have not yet perished from earth.John Hay.
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn,At the close of a woful day,Custer and his Three HundredIn death and silence lay.
Three Hundred to Three Thousand!They had bravely fought and bled;For such is the will of CongressWhen the White man meets the Red.
The White men are ten millions,The thriftiest under the sun;The Reds are fifty thousand,And warriors every one.
So Custer and all his fighting menLay under the evening skies,Staring up at the tranquil heavenWith wide, accusing eyes.
And of all that stood at noondayIn that fiery scorpion ring,Miles Keogh's horse at eveningWas the only living thing.
Alone from that field of slaughter,Where lay the three hundred slain,The horse Comanche wandered,With Keogh's blood on his mane.
And Sturgis issued this order,Which future times shall read,While the love and honor of comradesAre the soul of the soldier's creed.
He said—Let the horse ComancheHenceforth till he shall die,Be kindly cherished and cared forBy the Seventh Cavalry.
He shall do no labor; he never shall knowThe touch of spur or rein;Nor shall his back be ever crossedBy living rider again.
And at regimental formationOf the Seventh Cavalry,Comanche draped in mourning and ledBy a trooper of Company I,
Shall parade with the Regiment!Thus it wasCommanded and thus done,By order of General Sturgis, signedBy Adjutant Garlington.
Even as the sword of Custer,In his disastrous fall,Flashed out a blaze that charmed the worldAnd glorified his pall.
This order, issued amid the gloom,That shrouds our army's name,When all foul beasts are free to rendAnd tear its honest fame.
Shall prove to a callous peopleThat the sense of a soldier's worth,That the love of comrades, the honor of arms,Have not yet perished from earth.
John Hay.
The government rushed a large force to the scene, and finally, after painful fighting and toilsome marches stretching over many months, the Indians were brought to terms. Rain-in-the-Face afterwards professed himself a man of peace, and in 1886 tried to enter Hampton Institute. He was killed during the Sioux outbreak in 1890.
The government rushed a large force to the scene, and finally, after painful fighting and toilsome marches stretching over many months, the Indians were brought to terms. Rain-in-the-Face afterwards professed himself a man of peace, and in 1886 tried to enter Hampton Institute. He was killed during the Sioux outbreak in 1890.
ON THE BIG HORN
[1886]
The years are but half a score,And the war-whoop sounds no moreWith the blast of bugles, whereStraight into a slaughter pen,With his doomed three hundred men,Rode the chief with the yellow hair.O Hampton, down by the sea!What voice is beseeching theeFor the scholar's lowliest place?Can this be the voice of himWho fought on the Big Horn's rim?Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?His war-paint is washed away,His hands have forgotten to slay;He seeks for himself and his raceThe arts of peace and the loreThat give to the skilled hand moreThan the spoils of war and chase.O chief of the Christ-like school!Can the zeal of thy heart grow coolWhen the victor scarred with fightLike a child for thy guidance craves,And the faces of hunters and bravesAre turning to thee for light?The hatchet lies overgrownWith grass by the Yellowstone,Wind River and Paw of Bear;And, in sign that foes are friends,Each lodge like a peace-pipe sendsIts smoke in the quiet air.The hands that have done the wrongTo right the wronged are strong,And the voice of a nation saith:"Enough of the war of swords,Enough of the lying wordsAnd shame of a broken faith!"The hills that have watched afarThe valleys ablaze with warShall look on the tasselled corn;And the dust of the grinded grain,Instead of the blood of the slain,Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!The Ute and the wandering CrowShall know as the white men know,And fare as the white men fare;The pale and the red shall be brothers,One's rights shall be as another's,Home, School, and House of Prayer!O mountains that climb to snow,O river winding below,Through meadows by war once trod,O wild, waste lands that awaitThe harvest exceeding great,Break forth into praise of God!John Greenleaf Whittier.
The years are but half a score,And the war-whoop sounds no moreWith the blast of bugles, whereStraight into a slaughter pen,With his doomed three hundred men,Rode the chief with the yellow hair.O Hampton, down by the sea!What voice is beseeching theeFor the scholar's lowliest place?Can this be the voice of himWho fought on the Big Horn's rim?Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?His war-paint is washed away,His hands have forgotten to slay;He seeks for himself and his raceThe arts of peace and the loreThat give to the skilled hand moreThan the spoils of war and chase.O chief of the Christ-like school!Can the zeal of thy heart grow coolWhen the victor scarred with fightLike a child for thy guidance craves,And the faces of hunters and bravesAre turning to thee for light?The hatchet lies overgrownWith grass by the Yellowstone,Wind River and Paw of Bear;And, in sign that foes are friends,Each lodge like a peace-pipe sendsIts smoke in the quiet air.The hands that have done the wrongTo right the wronged are strong,And the voice of a nation saith:"Enough of the war of swords,Enough of the lying wordsAnd shame of a broken faith!"The hills that have watched afarThe valleys ablaze with warShall look on the tasselled corn;And the dust of the grinded grain,Instead of the blood of the slain,Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!The Ute and the wandering CrowShall know as the white men know,And fare as the white men fare;The pale and the red shall be brothers,One's rights shall be as another's,Home, School, and House of Prayer!O mountains that climb to snow,O river winding below,Through meadows by war once trod,O wild, waste lands that awaitThe harvest exceeding great,Break forth into praise of God!John Greenleaf Whittier.
The years are but half a score,And the war-whoop sounds no moreWith the blast of bugles, whereStraight into a slaughter pen,With his doomed three hundred men,Rode the chief with the yellow hair.
O Hampton, down by the sea!What voice is beseeching theeFor the scholar's lowliest place?Can this be the voice of himWho fought on the Big Horn's rim?Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?
His war-paint is washed away,His hands have forgotten to slay;He seeks for himself and his raceThe arts of peace and the loreThat give to the skilled hand moreThan the spoils of war and chase.
O chief of the Christ-like school!Can the zeal of thy heart grow coolWhen the victor scarred with fightLike a child for thy guidance craves,And the faces of hunters and bravesAre turning to thee for light?
The hatchet lies overgrownWith grass by the Yellowstone,Wind River and Paw of Bear;And, in sign that foes are friends,Each lodge like a peace-pipe sendsIts smoke in the quiet air.
The hands that have done the wrongTo right the wronged are strong,And the voice of a nation saith:"Enough of the war of swords,Enough of the lying wordsAnd shame of a broken faith!"
The hills that have watched afarThe valleys ablaze with warShall look on the tasselled corn;And the dust of the grinded grain,Instead of the blood of the slain,Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!
The Ute and the wandering CrowShall know as the white men know,And fare as the white men fare;The pale and the red shall be brothers,One's rights shall be as another's,Home, School, and House of Prayer!
O mountains that climb to snow,O river winding below,Through meadows by war once trod,O wild, waste lands that awaitThe harvest exceeding great,Break forth into praise of God!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
In 1886 another somewhat serious uprising took place among the Apaches, a band of hostiles taking the war-path under the chief, Geronimo. General Nelson A. Miles, after a long pursuit, succeeded in capturing them.
In 1886 another somewhat serious uprising took place among the Apaches, a band of hostiles taking the war-path under the chief, Geronimo. General Nelson A. Miles, after a long pursuit, succeeded in capturing them.
THE "GREY HORSE TROOP"
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain,Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain,Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux,Galloping, galloping: "Whoop—whuroo!The divil in yellow is down in the mud!"Sez Larry to Barry, "I'm losin' blood.""Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead—Seven rounds left, an' the horses dead—Barry a-cursin' at every breath;Larry beside him, as white as death;Indians galloping, galloping by,Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky!"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Two of us livin' and one of us dead—Shot in the head, and God!—how he bled!"Larry's done up," sez Barry to me;"Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!"While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view,Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux."Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Cheer—" an' he falls on Larry.Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop!The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop;Two out of three lay dead, while ICheered for the troop that never shall die.All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head,Cheerin' the livin', cheerin' the dead,Swingin' my cap, I cheered untilI stumbled and fell. Then over the hillThere floated a trumpeter's silvery call,An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all.Drink to the Greys,—an' Barry!Second Dragoons,—an' Larry!Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop!Let the crape on the guidons droop;Drink to the troopers who die, while IDrink to the troop that never shall die!Robert W. Chambers.
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain,Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain,Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux,Galloping, galloping: "Whoop—whuroo!The divil in yellow is down in the mud!"Sez Larry to Barry, "I'm losin' blood.""Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead—Seven rounds left, an' the horses dead—Barry a-cursin' at every breath;Larry beside him, as white as death;Indians galloping, galloping by,Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky!"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Two of us livin' and one of us dead—Shot in the head, and God!—how he bled!"Larry's done up," sez Barry to me;"Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!"While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view,Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux."Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Cheer—" an' he falls on Larry.Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop!The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop;Two out of three lay dead, while ICheered for the troop that never shall die.All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head,Cheerin' the livin', cheerin' the dead,Swingin' my cap, I cheered untilI stumbled and fell. Then over the hillThere floated a trumpeter's silvery call,An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all.Drink to the Greys,—an' Barry!Second Dragoons,—an' Larry!Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop!Let the crape on the guidons droop;Drink to the troopers who die, while IDrink to the troop that never shall die!Robert W. Chambers.
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain,Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain,Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux,Galloping, galloping: "Whoop—whuroo!The divil in yellow is down in the mud!"Sez Larry to Barry, "I'm losin' blood."
"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead—Seven rounds left, an' the horses dead—Barry a-cursin' at every breath;Larry beside him, as white as death;Indians galloping, galloping by,Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky!
"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Second Dragoons!" groans Larry;Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop!Whoop! ye divils—ye've got to whoop;Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I—"Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;Two of us livin' and one of us dead—Shot in the head, and God!—how he bled!"Larry's done up," sez Barry to me;"Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!"While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view,Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux.
"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry;"Cheer—" an' he falls on Larry.Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop!The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop;Two out of three lay dead, while ICheered for the troop that never shall die.
All alone on the hillside—Larry an' Barry an' me;An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head,Cheerin' the livin', cheerin' the dead,Swingin' my cap, I cheered untilI stumbled and fell. Then over the hillThere floated a trumpeter's silvery call,An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all.
Drink to the Greys,—an' Barry!Second Dragoons,—an' Larry!Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop!Let the crape on the guidons droop;Drink to the troopers who die, while IDrink to the troop that never shall die!
Robert W. Chambers.
Geronimo was sent to Fort Pickens, Florida, where he was kept in captivity for the remainder of his life.
Geronimo was sent to Fort Pickens, Florida, where he was kept in captivity for the remainder of his life.
GERONIMO
Beside that tent and under guardIn majesty alone he stands,As some chained eagle, broken-winged,With eyes that gleam like smouldering brands,—A savage face, streaked o'er with paint,And coal-black hair in unkempt mane,Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly,—A red Apache Tamerlane.As restless as the desert winds,Yet here he stands like carven stone,His raven locks by breezes movedAnd backward o'er his shoulders blown;Silent, yet watchful as he waitsRobed in his strange, barbaric guise,While here and there go searchinglyThe cat-like wanderings of his eyes.The eagle feather on his headIs dull with many a bloody stain,While darkly on his lowering browForever rests the mark of Cain.Have you but seen a tiger cagedAnd sullen through his barriers glare?Mark well his human prototype,The fierce Apache fettered there.Ernest McGaffey.
Beside that tent and under guardIn majesty alone he stands,As some chained eagle, broken-winged,With eyes that gleam like smouldering brands,—A savage face, streaked o'er with paint,And coal-black hair in unkempt mane,Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly,—A red Apache Tamerlane.As restless as the desert winds,Yet here he stands like carven stone,His raven locks by breezes movedAnd backward o'er his shoulders blown;Silent, yet watchful as he waitsRobed in his strange, barbaric guise,While here and there go searchinglyThe cat-like wanderings of his eyes.The eagle feather on his headIs dull with many a bloody stain,While darkly on his lowering browForever rests the mark of Cain.Have you but seen a tiger cagedAnd sullen through his barriers glare?Mark well his human prototype,The fierce Apache fettered there.Ernest McGaffey.
Beside that tent and under guardIn majesty alone he stands,As some chained eagle, broken-winged,With eyes that gleam like smouldering brands,—A savage face, streaked o'er with paint,And coal-black hair in unkempt mane,Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly,—A red Apache Tamerlane.
As restless as the desert winds,Yet here he stands like carven stone,His raven locks by breezes movedAnd backward o'er his shoulders blown;Silent, yet watchful as he waitsRobed in his strange, barbaric guise,While here and there go searchinglyThe cat-like wanderings of his eyes.
The eagle feather on his headIs dull with many a bloody stain,While darkly on his lowering browForever rests the mark of Cain.Have you but seen a tiger cagedAnd sullen through his barriers glare?Mark well his human prototype,The fierce Apache fettered there.
Ernest McGaffey.
In 1889 the territory known as Oklahoma was opened to settlement, and again the Indians saw their hunting-grounds invaded by the white man, while they themselves were compelled to remove to a new reservation. Sitting Bull again advised resistance, and was killed while trying to escape arrest. A squaw of the tribe, made desperate by the removal, killed her baby and committed suicide.
In 1889 the territory known as Oklahoma was opened to settlement, and again the Indians saw their hunting-grounds invaded by the white man, while they themselves were compelled to remove to a new reservation. Sitting Bull again advised resistance, and was killed while trying to escape arrest. A squaw of the tribe, made desperate by the removal, killed her baby and committed suicide.
THE LAST RESERVATION
Sullen and dark, in the September day,On the bank of the riverThey waited the boat that would bear them awayFrom their poor homes forever.For progress strides on, and the order had goneTo these wards of the nation,"Give us land and more room," was the cry, "and move onTo the next reservation."With her babe, she looked back at the home 'neath the treesFrom which they were driven,Where the smoke of the last camp fire, borne on the breeze,Rose slowly toward heaven.Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,The home of her nation;Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and bladeOf civilization.Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form,With tender caressing,She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warmA mother's kiss pressing.There's a splash in the river—the column moves on,Close-guarded and narrow,With hardly more note of the two that are goneThan the fall of a sparrow.Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure,To refinement a stranger,And a babe, that was born, in a wigwam as poorAnd rude as a manger.Moved on—to make room for the growth in the WestOf a brave Christian nation,Moved on—and, thank God, forever at restIn the last reservation.Walter Learned.
Sullen and dark, in the September day,On the bank of the riverThey waited the boat that would bear them awayFrom their poor homes forever.For progress strides on, and the order had goneTo these wards of the nation,"Give us land and more room," was the cry, "and move onTo the next reservation."With her babe, she looked back at the home 'neath the treesFrom which they were driven,Where the smoke of the last camp fire, borne on the breeze,Rose slowly toward heaven.Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,The home of her nation;Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and bladeOf civilization.Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form,With tender caressing,She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warmA mother's kiss pressing.There's a splash in the river—the column moves on,Close-guarded and narrow,With hardly more note of the two that are goneThan the fall of a sparrow.Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure,To refinement a stranger,And a babe, that was born, in a wigwam as poorAnd rude as a manger.Moved on—to make room for the growth in the WestOf a brave Christian nation,Moved on—and, thank God, forever at restIn the last reservation.Walter Learned.
Sullen and dark, in the September day,On the bank of the riverThey waited the boat that would bear them awayFrom their poor homes forever.
For progress strides on, and the order had goneTo these wards of the nation,"Give us land and more room," was the cry, "and move onTo the next reservation."
With her babe, she looked back at the home 'neath the treesFrom which they were driven,Where the smoke of the last camp fire, borne on the breeze,Rose slowly toward heaven.
Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade,The home of her nation;Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and bladeOf civilization.
Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form,With tender caressing,She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warmA mother's kiss pressing.
There's a splash in the river—the column moves on,Close-guarded and narrow,With hardly more note of the two that are goneThan the fall of a sparrow.
Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure,To refinement a stranger,And a babe, that was born, in a wigwam as poorAnd rude as a manger.
Moved on—to make room for the growth in the WestOf a brave Christian nation,Moved on—and, thank God, forever at restIn the last reservation.
Walter Learned.
That was the last of the Indian outbreaks. Although there are still more than two hundred thousand Indians in the United States, by far the greater part of them have adopted the dress and customs of the white man and are engaged in peaceful occupations. The remainder are content to live in idleness upon the government's bounty.
That was the last of the Indian outbreaks. Although there are still more than two hundred thousand Indians in the United States, by far the greater part of them have adopted the dress and customs of the white man and are engaged in peaceful occupations. The remainder are content to live in idleness upon the government's bounty.
INDIAN NAMES
Ye say they all have pass'd away,That noble race and brave,That their light canoes have vanish'dFrom off the crested wave;That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,There rings no hunter's shout;But their name is on your waters,Ye may not wash it out.'Tis where Ontario's billowLike ocean's surge is curl'd;Where strong Niagara's thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the West,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia's breast.Ye say their conelike cabins,That cluster'd o'er the vale,Have fled away like wither'd leavesBefore the autumn's gale:But their memory liveth on your hills,Their baptism on your shore;Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears itWithin her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears it'Mid all her young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse,Through all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust:Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
Ye say they all have pass'd away,That noble race and brave,That their light canoes have vanish'dFrom off the crested wave;That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,There rings no hunter's shout;But their name is on your waters,Ye may not wash it out.'Tis where Ontario's billowLike ocean's surge is curl'd;Where strong Niagara's thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the West,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia's breast.Ye say their conelike cabins,That cluster'd o'er the vale,Have fled away like wither'd leavesBefore the autumn's gale:But their memory liveth on your hills,Their baptism on your shore;Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.Old Massachusetts wears itWithin her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears it'Mid all her young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse,Through all her ancient caves.Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust:Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
Ye say they all have pass'd away,That noble race and brave,That their light canoes have vanish'dFrom off the crested wave;That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,There rings no hunter's shout;But their name is on your waters,Ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billowLike ocean's surge is curl'd;Where strong Niagara's thunders wakeThe echo of the world;Where red Missouri bringethRich tribute from the West,And Rappahannock sweetly sleepsOn green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their conelike cabins,That cluster'd o'er the vale,Have fled away like wither'd leavesBefore the autumn's gale:But their memory liveth on your hills,Their baptism on your shore;Your everlasting rivers speakTheir dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears itWithin her lordly crown,And broad Ohio bears it'Mid all her young renown;Connecticut hath wreathed itWhere her quiet foliage waves,And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse,Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voiceWithin his rocky heart,And Alleghany graves its toneThroughout his lofty chart;Monadnock on his forehead hoarDoth seal the sacred trust:Your mountains build their monument,Though ye destroy their dust.
Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
THE SECOND ASSASSINATION
On the fourth day of March, 1881, James Abram Garfield, Republican, was inaugurated President of the United States. He had served with distinction in the Civil War and afterwards in Congress and seemed destined to enjoy a peaceful and prosperous administration. But on July 1 he was shot down at Washington by Charles J. Guiteau, a half-crazed, disappointed office-seeker. The President fought manfully for life, but blood poisoning developed, and death followed on September 19.
On the fourth day of March, 1881, James Abram Garfield, Republican, was inaugurated President of the United States. He had served with distinction in the Civil War and afterwards in Congress and seemed destined to enjoy a peaceful and prosperous administration. But on July 1 he was shot down at Washington by Charles J. Guiteau, a half-crazed, disappointed office-seeker. The President fought manfully for life, but blood poisoning developed, and death followed on September 19.
REJOICE
"Bear me out of the battle, for lo! I am sorely wounded."
IFrom out my deep, wide-bosomed West,Where unnamed heroes hew the wayFor worlds to follow, with stern zest,—Where gnarled old maples make array,Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—Where pipes the quail, where squirrels playThrough tossing trees, with nuts for toy,A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,A bashful boy, a soulful boy,Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,Yet heir-apparent to a throne.IILo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!So, like some tall oak tempest-blown,Beside the storied stream he liesNow at the last, pale-browed and prone.A nation kneels with streaming eyes,A nation supplicates the throne,A nation holds him by the hand,A nation sobs aloud at this:The only dry eyes in the landNow at the last, I think, are his.Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,That this grand, patient soul should rest.IIIThe world is round. The wheel has runFull circle. Now behold a graveBeneath the old loved trees is done.The druid oaks lift up, and waveA solemn welcome back. The braveOld maples murmur, every one,"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,As in the centre of each heart,As in the hollow of God's hand,The coffin sinks. And with it partAll party hates! Now, not in vainHe bore his peril and hard pain.IVTherefore, I say, rejoice! I say,The lesson of his life was much,—This boy that won, as in a day,The world's heart utterly; a touchOf tenderness and tears: the pageOf history grows rich from such;His name the nation's heritage,—But oh! as some sweet angel's voiceSpake this brave death that touched us all.Therefore, I say, Rejoice! Rejoice!Run high the flags! Put by the pall!Lo! all is for the best for all!Joaquin Miller.
IFrom out my deep, wide-bosomed West,Where unnamed heroes hew the wayFor worlds to follow, with stern zest,—Where gnarled old maples make array,Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—Where pipes the quail, where squirrels playThrough tossing trees, with nuts for toy,A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,A bashful boy, a soulful boy,Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,Yet heir-apparent to a throne.IILo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!So, like some tall oak tempest-blown,Beside the storied stream he liesNow at the last, pale-browed and prone.A nation kneels with streaming eyes,A nation supplicates the throne,A nation holds him by the hand,A nation sobs aloud at this:The only dry eyes in the landNow at the last, I think, are his.Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,That this grand, patient soul should rest.IIIThe world is round. The wheel has runFull circle. Now behold a graveBeneath the old loved trees is done.The druid oaks lift up, and waveA solemn welcome back. The braveOld maples murmur, every one,"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,As in the centre of each heart,As in the hollow of God's hand,The coffin sinks. And with it partAll party hates! Now, not in vainHe bore his peril and hard pain.IVTherefore, I say, rejoice! I say,The lesson of his life was much,—This boy that won, as in a day,The world's heart utterly; a touchOf tenderness and tears: the pageOf history grows rich from such;His name the nation's heritage,—But oh! as some sweet angel's voiceSpake this brave death that touched us all.Therefore, I say, Rejoice! Rejoice!Run high the flags! Put by the pall!Lo! all is for the best for all!Joaquin Miller.
IFrom out my deep, wide-bosomed West,Where unnamed heroes hew the wayFor worlds to follow, with stern zest,—Where gnarled old maples make array,Deep-scarred from red men gone to rest,—Where pipes the quail, where squirrels playThrough tossing trees, with nuts for toy,A boy steps forth, clear-eyed and tall,A bashful boy, a soulful boy,Yet comely as the sons of Saul,—A boy, all friendless, poor, unknown,Yet heir-apparent to a throne.
IILo! Freedom's bleeding sacrifice!So, like some tall oak tempest-blown,Beside the storied stream he liesNow at the last, pale-browed and prone.A nation kneels with streaming eyes,A nation supplicates the throne,A nation holds him by the hand,A nation sobs aloud at this:The only dry eyes in the landNow at the last, I think, are his.Why, we should pray, God knoweth best,That this grand, patient soul should rest.
IIIThe world is round. The wheel has runFull circle. Now behold a graveBeneath the old loved trees is done.The druid oaks lift up, and waveA solemn welcome back. The braveOld maples murmur, every one,"Receive him, Earth!" In centre land,As in the centre of each heart,As in the hollow of God's hand,The coffin sinks. And with it partAll party hates! Now, not in vainHe bore his peril and hard pain.
IVTherefore, I say, rejoice! I say,The lesson of his life was much,—This boy that won, as in a day,The world's heart utterly; a touchOf tenderness and tears: the pageOf history grows rich from such;His name the nation's heritage,—But oh! as some sweet angel's voiceSpake this brave death that touched us all.Therefore, I say, Rejoice! Rejoice!Run high the flags! Put by the pall!Lo! all is for the best for all!
Joaquin Miller.
THE BELLS AT MIDNIGHT
[September 19, 1881]
In their dark House of CloudThe three weird sisters toil till time be sped;One unwinds life, one ever weaves the shroud,One waits to part the thread.
In their dark House of CloudThe three weird sisters toil till time be sped;One unwinds life, one ever weaves the shroud,One waits to part the thread.
In their dark House of CloudThe three weird sisters toil till time be sped;One unwinds life, one ever weaves the shroud,One waits to part the thread.
ICLOTHOHow long, O sister, how longEre the weary task is done?How long, O sister, how longShall the fragile thread be spun?LACHESIS'Tis mercy that stays her hand,Else she had cut the thread;She is a woman too,Like her who kneels by his bed!ATROPOSPatience! the end is come;He shall no more endure:See! with a single touch!—My hand is swift and sure!IITwo Angels pausing in their flight.FIRST ANGELListen! what was it fellAn instant ago on my ear—A sound like the throb of a bellFrom yonder darkling sphere!SECOND ANGELThe planet where mortals dwell!I hear it not ... yes, I hear;How it deepens—a sound of dole!FIRST ANGELListen! It is the knellOf a passing soul—The midnight lamentationOf some stricken nationFor a Chieftain's soul!It is just begun,The many-throated moan ...Now the clangor swellsAs if a million bellsHad blent their tones in one!Accents of despairAre these to mortal ear;But all this wild funereal music blownAnd sifted through celestial airTurns to triumphal pæans here!Wave upon wave the silvery anthems flow;Wave upon wave the deep vibrations rollFrom that dim sphere below.Come, let us go—Surely, some chieftain's soul!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
ICLOTHOHow long, O sister, how longEre the weary task is done?How long, O sister, how longShall the fragile thread be spun?LACHESIS'Tis mercy that stays her hand,Else she had cut the thread;She is a woman too,Like her who kneels by his bed!ATROPOSPatience! the end is come;He shall no more endure:See! with a single touch!—My hand is swift and sure!IITwo Angels pausing in their flight.FIRST ANGELListen! what was it fellAn instant ago on my ear—A sound like the throb of a bellFrom yonder darkling sphere!SECOND ANGELThe planet where mortals dwell!I hear it not ... yes, I hear;How it deepens—a sound of dole!FIRST ANGELListen! It is the knellOf a passing soul—The midnight lamentationOf some stricken nationFor a Chieftain's soul!It is just begun,The many-throated moan ...Now the clangor swellsAs if a million bellsHad blent their tones in one!Accents of despairAre these to mortal ear;But all this wild funereal music blownAnd sifted through celestial airTurns to triumphal pæans here!Wave upon wave the silvery anthems flow;Wave upon wave the deep vibrations rollFrom that dim sphere below.Come, let us go—Surely, some chieftain's soul!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
ICLOTHOHow long, O sister, how longEre the weary task is done?How long, O sister, how longShall the fragile thread be spun?
LACHESIS
'Tis mercy that stays her hand,Else she had cut the thread;She is a woman too,Like her who kneels by his bed!
ATROPOS
Patience! the end is come;He shall no more endure:See! with a single touch!—My hand is swift and sure!
IITwo Angels pausing in their flight.FIRST ANGEL
Listen! what was it fellAn instant ago on my ear—A sound like the throb of a bellFrom yonder darkling sphere!
SECOND ANGEL
The planet where mortals dwell!I hear it not ... yes, I hear;How it deepens—a sound of dole!
FIRST ANGEL
Listen! It is the knellOf a passing soul—The midnight lamentationOf some stricken nationFor a Chieftain's soul!It is just begun,The many-throated moan ...Now the clangor swellsAs if a million bellsHad blent their tones in one!Accents of despairAre these to mortal ear;But all this wild funereal music blownAnd sifted through celestial airTurns to triumphal pæans here!Wave upon wave the silvery anthems flow;Wave upon wave the deep vibrations rollFrom that dim sphere below.Come, let us go—Surely, some chieftain's soul!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
J. A. G.
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth.So brave, so true! A hero from his birth!The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped,The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.Life's vanities that blossom for an hourHeap on his funeral car their fleeting flower.Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim,And pours her tardy gold, to homage him.The notes of grief to age familiar growBefore the sad privations all must know;But the majestic cadence which we hearTo-day, is new in either hemisphere.What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach,Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech?The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed;He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.While royal babes incipient empire hold,And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold,This man such service to his age did bringThat they who knew him servant, hailed him king.In poverty his infant couch was spread;His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread;But from the cradle's bound his willing feetThe errand of the moment went to meet.When learning's page unfolded to his view,The quick disciple straight a teacher grew;And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land,Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.Wise in the council, stalwart in the field!Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield.His onward steps like measured marbles show,Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp!Ah! Golden woof that meet'st a severed warp!Ah! Solemn comfort that the stars rain down!The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown.Julia Ward Howe.
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth.So brave, so true! A hero from his birth!The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped,The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.Life's vanities that blossom for an hourHeap on his funeral car their fleeting flower.Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim,And pours her tardy gold, to homage him.The notes of grief to age familiar growBefore the sad privations all must know;But the majestic cadence which we hearTo-day, is new in either hemisphere.What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach,Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech?The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed;He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.While royal babes incipient empire hold,And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold,This man such service to his age did bringThat they who knew him servant, hailed him king.In poverty his infant couch was spread;His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread;But from the cradle's bound his willing feetThe errand of the moment went to meet.When learning's page unfolded to his view,The quick disciple straight a teacher grew;And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land,Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.Wise in the council, stalwart in the field!Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield.His onward steps like measured marbles show,Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp!Ah! Golden woof that meet'st a severed warp!Ah! Solemn comfort that the stars rain down!The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown.Julia Ward Howe.
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth.So brave, so true! A hero from his birth!The plumes of Empire moult, in mourning draped,The lightning's message by our tears is shaped.
Life's vanities that blossom for an hourHeap on his funeral car their fleeting flower.Commerce forsakes her temples, blind and dim,And pours her tardy gold, to homage him.
The notes of grief to age familiar growBefore the sad privations all must know;But the majestic cadence which we hearTo-day, is new in either hemisphere.
What crown is this, high hung and hard to reach,Whose glory so outshines our laboring speech?The crown of Honor, pure and unbetrayed;He wins the spurs who bears the knightly aid.
While royal babes incipient empire hold,And, for bare promise, grasp the sceptre's gold,This man such service to his age did bringThat they who knew him servant, hailed him king.
In poverty his infant couch was spread;His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread;But from the cradle's bound his willing feetThe errand of the moment went to meet.
When learning's page unfolded to his view,The quick disciple straight a teacher grew;And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land,Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.
Wise in the council, stalwart in the field!Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield.His onward steps like measured marbles show,Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.
Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp!Ah! Golden woof that meet'st a severed warp!Ah! Solemn comfort that the stars rain down!The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown.
Julia Ward Howe.
MIDNIGHT—SEPTEMBER 19, 1881
Once in a lifetime, we may see the veilTremble and lift, that hides symbolic things;The Spirit's vision, when the senses fail,Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be—A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—The soul inverts the telescope to seeTo-day's events in future's years revealed.Back from the present, let us look at Rome:Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said,Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!But we, hard toilers, we who plan and weaveThrough common days the web of common life,What word, alas! shall teach us to receiveThe mystic meaning of our peace and strife?Whence comes our symbol? Surely, God must speak—No less than He can make us heed or pause:Self-seekers we, too busy or too weakTo search beyond our daily lives and laws.From things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;No sound of Destiny can reach our ears;We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell—A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake—The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;The weary workmen from their slumbers break;The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;The miner rests upon his pick to hear;The printer's type stops midway from the case;The solemn sound has reached the roysterer's ear,And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.Again it booms! O Mystic Veil, upraise!—Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,A picture lined with light! The people's gaze,From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn!A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:Death's shadow holds her—it will pass too soon;She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon;And as he murmurs, all the country hears:For him the pain is past, the struggle ends;His cares and honors fade—his younger lifeIn peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;His mother's arms take home his dear young wife.He stands among the students, tall and strong,And teaches truths republican and grand;He moves—ah, pitiful—he sweeps alongO'er fields of carnage leading his command!He speaks to crowded faces—round him surgeThousands and millions of excited men;He hears them cheer—sees some vast light emerge—Is borne as on a tempest—then—ah, then,The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;A deepened pang, then recollection's thrill;He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,His heart beats once in answer, and is still!The curtain falls: but hushed, as if afraid,The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laidWith Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.John Boyle O'Reilly.
Once in a lifetime, we may see the veilTremble and lift, that hides symbolic things;The Spirit's vision, when the senses fail,Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be—A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—The soul inverts the telescope to seeTo-day's events in future's years revealed.Back from the present, let us look at Rome:Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said,Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!But we, hard toilers, we who plan and weaveThrough common days the web of common life,What word, alas! shall teach us to receiveThe mystic meaning of our peace and strife?Whence comes our symbol? Surely, God must speak—No less than He can make us heed or pause:Self-seekers we, too busy or too weakTo search beyond our daily lives and laws.From things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;No sound of Destiny can reach our ears;We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell—A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake—The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;The weary workmen from their slumbers break;The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;The miner rests upon his pick to hear;The printer's type stops midway from the case;The solemn sound has reached the roysterer's ear,And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.Again it booms! O Mystic Veil, upraise!—Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,A picture lined with light! The people's gaze,From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn!A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:Death's shadow holds her—it will pass too soon;She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon;And as he murmurs, all the country hears:For him the pain is past, the struggle ends;His cares and honors fade—his younger lifeIn peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;His mother's arms take home his dear young wife.He stands among the students, tall and strong,And teaches truths republican and grand;He moves—ah, pitiful—he sweeps alongO'er fields of carnage leading his command!He speaks to crowded faces—round him surgeThousands and millions of excited men;He hears them cheer—sees some vast light emerge—Is borne as on a tempest—then—ah, then,The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;A deepened pang, then recollection's thrill;He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,His heart beats once in answer, and is still!The curtain falls: but hushed, as if afraid,The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laidWith Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.John Boyle O'Reilly.
Once in a lifetime, we may see the veilTremble and lift, that hides symbolic things;The Spirit's vision, when the senses fail,Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings.
Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be—A crowded street, a forum, or a field,—The soul inverts the telescope to seeTo-day's events in future's years revealed.
Back from the present, let us look at Rome:Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said,Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home!How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead!
But we, hard toilers, we who plan and weaveThrough common days the web of common life,What word, alas! shall teach us to receiveThe mystic meaning of our peace and strife?
Whence comes our symbol? Surely, God must speak—No less than He can make us heed or pause:Self-seekers we, too busy or too weakTo search beyond our daily lives and laws.
From things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel;No sound of Destiny can reach our ears;We have no time for dreaming—Hark! a knell—A knell at midnight! All the nation hears!
A second grievous throb! The dreamers wake—The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships;The weary workmen from their slumbers break;The women raise their eyes with quivering lips;
The miner rests upon his pick to hear;The printer's type stops midway from the case;The solemn sound has reached the roysterer's ear,And brought the shame and sorrow to his face.
Again it booms! O Mystic Veil, upraise!—Behold, 'tis lifted! On the darkness drawn,A picture lined with light! The people's gaze,From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn!
A death-bed scene—a sinking sufferer lies,Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride;Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes;His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side:
Death's shadow holds her—it will pass too soon;She weeps in silence—bitterest of tears;He wanders softly—Nature's kindest boon;And as he murmurs, all the country hears:
For him the pain is past, the struggle ends;His cares and honors fade—his younger lifeIn peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends;His mother's arms take home his dear young wife.
He stands among the students, tall and strong,And teaches truths republican and grand;He moves—ah, pitiful—he sweeps alongO'er fields of carnage leading his command!
He speaks to crowded faces—round him surgeThousands and millions of excited men;He hears them cheer—sees some vast light emerge—Is borne as on a tempest—then—ah, then,
The fancies fade, the fever's work is past;A deepened pang, then recollection's thrill;He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last,His heart beats once in answer, and is still!
The curtain falls: but hushed, as if afraid,The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast;'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laidWith Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest.
John Boyle O'Reilly.
For two days, September 22 and 23, the body lay in state in the rotunda of the Capitol. Then, in a long train crowded with the most illustrious of his countrymen, the dead President was borne to Cleveland, Ohio, and buried on September 26, in a beautiful cemetery overlooking the waters of Lake Erie.
For two days, September 22 and 23, the body lay in state in the rotunda of the Capitol. Then, in a long train crowded with the most illustrious of his countrymen, the dead President was borne to Cleveland, Ohio, and buried on September 26, in a beautiful cemetery overlooking the waters of Lake Erie.
AT THE PRESIDENT'S GRAVE
All summer long the people kneltAnd listened at the sick man's door:Each pang which that pale sufferer feltThrobbed through the land from shore to shore;And as the all-dreaded hour drew nigh,What breathless watching, night and day!What tears, what prayers! Great God on high,Have we forgotten how to pray!O broken-hearted, widowed one,Forgive us if we press too near!Dead is our husband, father, son,—For we are all one household here.And not alone here by the sea,And not in his own land alone,Are tears of anguish shed with thee—In this one loss the world is one.EPITAPHA man not perfect, but of heartSo high, of such heroic rage,That even his hopes became a partOf earth's eternal heritage.Richard Watson Gilder.
All summer long the people kneltAnd listened at the sick man's door:Each pang which that pale sufferer feltThrobbed through the land from shore to shore;And as the all-dreaded hour drew nigh,What breathless watching, night and day!What tears, what prayers! Great God on high,Have we forgotten how to pray!O broken-hearted, widowed one,Forgive us if we press too near!Dead is our husband, father, son,—For we are all one household here.And not alone here by the sea,And not in his own land alone,Are tears of anguish shed with thee—In this one loss the world is one.EPITAPHA man not perfect, but of heartSo high, of such heroic rage,That even his hopes became a partOf earth's eternal heritage.Richard Watson Gilder.
All summer long the people kneltAnd listened at the sick man's door:Each pang which that pale sufferer feltThrobbed through the land from shore to shore;
And as the all-dreaded hour drew nigh,What breathless watching, night and day!What tears, what prayers! Great God on high,Have we forgotten how to pray!
O broken-hearted, widowed one,Forgive us if we press too near!Dead is our husband, father, son,—For we are all one household here.
And not alone here by the sea,And not in his own land alone,Are tears of anguish shed with thee—In this one loss the world is one.
EPITAPH
A man not perfect, but of heartSo high, of such heroic rage,That even his hopes became a partOf earth's eternal heritage.
Richard Watson Gilder.
The public rage against the assassin knew no bounds. Only by the utmost vigilance was his life saved from the attacks upon it. He was brought to trial and found guilty of murder in January, 1882, and was executed June 30.
The public rage against the assassin knew no bounds. Only by the utmost vigilance was his life saved from the attacks upon it. He was brought to trial and found guilty of murder in January, 1882, and was executed June 30.
ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD
IFallen with autumn's falling leafEre yet his summer's noon was past,Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—What words can match a woe so vast!And whose the chartered claim to speakThe sacred grief where all have part,Where sorrow saddens every cheekAnd broods in every aching heart?Yet Nature prompts the burning phraseThat thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,The silent tear that love lets fall.In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—The singers of the new-born time,And trembling age with outworn lyre.No room for pride, no place for blame,—We fling our blossoms on the grave,Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim,This only,—what we had we gave.Ah, could the grief of all who mournBlend in one voice its bitter cry,The wail to heaven's high arches borneWould echo through the caverned sky.IIO happiest land, whose peaceful choiceFills with a breath its empty throne!God, speaking through thy people's voice,Has made that voice for once his own.No angry passion shakes the stateWhose weary servant seeks for rest,And who could fear that scowling hateWould strike at that unguarded breast?He stands, unconscious of his doom,In manly strength, erect, serene;Around him Summer spreads her bloom;He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!How swift the sudden flash of woeWhere all was bright as childhood's dream!As if from heaven's ethereal bowHad leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.Blot the foul deed from history's page;Let not the all-betraying sunBlush for the day that stains an ageWhen murder's blackest wreath was won.IIIPale on his couch the sufferer lies,The weary battle-ground of pain:Love tends his pillow; Science triesHer every art, alas! in vain.The strife endures how long! how long!Life, death, seem balanced in the scale,While round his bed a viewless throngAwait each morrow's changing tale.In realms the desert ocean partsWhat myriads watch with tear-filled eyes,His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts,His breathings counted with their sighs!Slowly the stores of life are spent,Yet hope still battles with despair;Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent?Answer, O thou that hearest prayer!But silent is the brazen sky;On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,Unswerving Nature's mute reply,Bound in her adamantine chain.Not ours the verdict to decideWhom death shall claim or skill shall save;The hero's life though Heaven denied,It gave our land a martyr's grave.Nor count the teaching vainly sentHow human hearts their griefs may share,—The lesson woman's love has lent,What hope may do, what faith can bear!Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfoldsOur stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,And autumn's golden sun beholdsA nation bowed, a world in tears.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
IFallen with autumn's falling leafEre yet his summer's noon was past,Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—What words can match a woe so vast!And whose the chartered claim to speakThe sacred grief where all have part,Where sorrow saddens every cheekAnd broods in every aching heart?Yet Nature prompts the burning phraseThat thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,The silent tear that love lets fall.In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—The singers of the new-born time,And trembling age with outworn lyre.No room for pride, no place for blame,—We fling our blossoms on the grave,Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim,This only,—what we had we gave.Ah, could the grief of all who mournBlend in one voice its bitter cry,The wail to heaven's high arches borneWould echo through the caverned sky.IIO happiest land, whose peaceful choiceFills with a breath its empty throne!God, speaking through thy people's voice,Has made that voice for once his own.No angry passion shakes the stateWhose weary servant seeks for rest,And who could fear that scowling hateWould strike at that unguarded breast?He stands, unconscious of his doom,In manly strength, erect, serene;Around him Summer spreads her bloom;He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!How swift the sudden flash of woeWhere all was bright as childhood's dream!As if from heaven's ethereal bowHad leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.Blot the foul deed from history's page;Let not the all-betraying sunBlush for the day that stains an ageWhen murder's blackest wreath was won.IIIPale on his couch the sufferer lies,The weary battle-ground of pain:Love tends his pillow; Science triesHer every art, alas! in vain.The strife endures how long! how long!Life, death, seem balanced in the scale,While round his bed a viewless throngAwait each morrow's changing tale.In realms the desert ocean partsWhat myriads watch with tear-filled eyes,His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts,His breathings counted with their sighs!Slowly the stores of life are spent,Yet hope still battles with despair;Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent?Answer, O thou that hearest prayer!But silent is the brazen sky;On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,Unswerving Nature's mute reply,Bound in her adamantine chain.Not ours the verdict to decideWhom death shall claim or skill shall save;The hero's life though Heaven denied,It gave our land a martyr's grave.Nor count the teaching vainly sentHow human hearts their griefs may share,—The lesson woman's love has lent,What hope may do, what faith can bear!Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfoldsOur stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,And autumn's golden sun beholdsA nation bowed, a world in tears.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
IFallen with autumn's falling leafEre yet his summer's noon was past,Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,—What words can match a woe so vast!
And whose the chartered claim to speakThe sacred grief where all have part,Where sorrow saddens every cheekAnd broods in every aching heart?
Yet Nature prompts the burning phraseThat thrills the hushed and shrouded hall,The loud lament, the sorrowing praise,The silent tear that love lets fall.
In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme,Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—The singers of the new-born time,And trembling age with outworn lyre.
No room for pride, no place for blame,—We fling our blossoms on the grave,Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim,This only,—what we had we gave.
Ah, could the grief of all who mournBlend in one voice its bitter cry,The wail to heaven's high arches borneWould echo through the caverned sky.
IIO happiest land, whose peaceful choiceFills with a breath its empty throne!God, speaking through thy people's voice,Has made that voice for once his own.
No angry passion shakes the stateWhose weary servant seeks for rest,And who could fear that scowling hateWould strike at that unguarded breast?
He stands, unconscious of his doom,In manly strength, erect, serene;Around him Summer spreads her bloom;He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!
How swift the sudden flash of woeWhere all was bright as childhood's dream!As if from heaven's ethereal bowHad leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.
Blot the foul deed from history's page;Let not the all-betraying sunBlush for the day that stains an ageWhen murder's blackest wreath was won.
IIIPale on his couch the sufferer lies,The weary battle-ground of pain:Love tends his pillow; Science triesHer every art, alas! in vain.
The strife endures how long! how long!Life, death, seem balanced in the scale,While round his bed a viewless throngAwait each morrow's changing tale.
In realms the desert ocean partsWhat myriads watch with tear-filled eyes,His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts,His breathings counted with their sighs!
Slowly the stores of life are spent,Yet hope still battles with despair;Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent?Answer, O thou that hearest prayer!
But silent is the brazen sky;On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,Unswerving Nature's mute reply,Bound in her adamantine chain.
Not ours the verdict to decideWhom death shall claim or skill shall save;The hero's life though Heaven denied,It gave our land a martyr's grave.
Nor count the teaching vainly sentHow human hearts their griefs may share,—The lesson woman's love has lent,What hope may do, what faith can bear!
Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfoldsOur stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears,And autumn's golden sun beholdsA nation bowed, a world in tears.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
PRESIDENT GARFIELD